


the day the music died

by janie_tangerine



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Blood and Gore, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Heavy Angst, Hurt No Comfort, I'm Sorry, Inspired by Music, Missing Scene, POV Alternating, Post - Red Wedding, Ramsay is his own warning, Red Wedding, The Author Regrets Everything, writing experimentation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-19
Updated: 2017-02-19
Packaged: 2018-09-25 16:05:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9827921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/janie_tangerine/pseuds/janie_tangerine
Summary: five people who were at the Red Wedding and one who wasn't.(Or, alternatively: three people who died at the Red Wedding and three who didn't, but not all the ones who died were attending.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> ... okay, so. This shit has been on my HD for... way too long. Like, I wrote it because I had horrible feelings about the RW after reading about it, they wouldn't settle after letting a few months pass. Then one day I was listening to freaking _American Pie_ out of everything, some lyrics made me go like THIS FITS THE RW and I had the idea and... I figured I'd give it a go to exorcise the feelings in question. Idk how well it worked because I never got over it and the show didn't help, but then I never published it because it's really... not my usual stuff? I mean let's say my general fanfic philosophy is trying to make things better and not worse and this so does not make anything better, but. Anyway as stated I'm going through my unposted/unfinished stuff and it's ridiculous that it's still there in the folder like THIS IS FINISHED JUST POST IT ALREADY, so. Here you go. I'm honestly fucking sorry I swear we'll be back to our usual fluff asap. D:
> 
> Further obligatory disclaimer: nothing here belongs to me (I wish), the title is from the aforementioned and quoted [American Pie](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uAsV5-Hv-7U) and idk if you wanna listen to this while reading this because doing it while writing it was an exercise in masochism, but I'm not gonna stop you if you want to.

1.

_**But I knew I was out of luck  
The day the music died** _

He knows he’s done for the moment he hears that blasted song.

( _and who are you, the proud lord said, that I must bow so low?_ )

He’s sang it himself enough times, and he’s been in the service of the man it was written for long enough to realize what it means when it’s played, and when blood starts spilling in front of him, Sandor Clegane knows that it was too late.

It wasn’t a bad plan, he thinks as he searches for the thrice damned girl.

The worst thing is that he knows he’s going to try to save her, and he’s not going to do it because he gives a shit about Arya Stark, especially now when she’s not worth anything anymore, but he’s going to do it because Robb Stark is dead and the other two left at Winterfell are dead, too, and it means that fucking Sansa Stark only has one sibling left in the world, if she doesn’t get herself killed first.

He should just let her die. It’s not as if he would have even attempted any of this if it hadn’t been for the bloody little bird. _She_ was the one whispering that maybe Robb Stark would have given her Joffrey’s head (Sandor had heard her well enough), she was the one who had never stopped hoping that her honorable, strong, kind brother would storm into King’s Landing (everyone could see that she never meant it when she said she hoped her traitor brother would die). She had been the one giving him that damned song, _she_ had been the one that had planted that stupid, hopeless idea in him.

(Robb Stark was honorable, strong, kind and merciful. Robb Stark would have seen his point. Robb Stark would have been grateful the moment he saw his little sister. Robb Stark would have taken him in his service, and he wouldn’t have found his pleasure in kicking him just because he could. Robb Stark would have gotten his sister back at some point. And then maybe she’d have seen that he wasn’t –

That’s useless. It was something that could have been in one of her stupid songs.

Which only proves his point. Life is not a song. Damn her for ever making him think that for once, it could be.)

Well, he had been wrong.

(So wrong.)

He strikes the stupid, suicidal girl with his axe so that she doesn’t get herself killed (why does he even fucking care, really), and as he grabs her and runs from the carnage,

( _and not a soul to hear_ )

he knows for sure that hoping for anything decent is as useless as he ever thought.

2.

_**And while the king was looking down  
The Jester stole his thorny crown** _

There are things that have to be done, regardless of the circumstances.

No doubts, Robb Stark could have been a good king. No doubts, being his bannerman could have been convenient in the long run.

No doubts, he _could_ have been worth siding with, if not for those small, crucial mistakes. And you don’t gain yourself a peaceful land for yourself siding with a boy of sixteen who loses his castle and ruins a half-won war because he’s too honorable to leave a spoiled former maiden behind.

He’s moderately sorry that it’s come to this, but Roose Bolton doesn’t like staying on a sinking ship. He prefers having both his feet on dry land. It’s not that he relishes the part he’s about to play, either, but the way it was decided, it means he gets the North. Not as a free reign, but a peaceful land for yourself doesn’t have to be a free one, as well.

He walks through the mess in the hall. Robb Stark looks almost pitiful as his fingers grip that table, trying to stand up. He faintly hears Lady Stark telling him to walk out of the room – as if. Their former precious king couldn’t even take two steps before falling down on his knees.

Well then. Maybe it’s time to put him out of his misery. Good rulers should have a necessary amount of mercy, and Walder Frey’s laughs are starting to grate on Roose’s nerves. Some.

Also, it’s also time he does what he had assured Jaime Lannister that he’d do. No sense in not paying a courtesy to your new ally’s son. Just in case.

“Jaime Lannister sends his regards,” he says, and then he thrusts.

Robb Stark is dead a moment later.

Pity it had to go like this, but Roose Bolton isn’t the kind of person to overlook the facts.

He wouldn’t have lasted much longer anyway.

3.

_**We all got up to dance  
Oh, but we never got the chance** _

Dacey never hated dancing. She likes feeling a sword’s handle between her finger and wielding it a lot more than she’ll ever like wearing dresses suited to proper ladies, and she likes the thrill of battle a lot more than she’ll ever like dancing or singing or sewing – what proper ladies do. But that doesn’t mean that she can’t do it, or that she won’t, or that she hates wearing dresses.

Dacey liked dancing with her young king just fine, and she knows she hadn’t done a bad job of it. To be frank, she had liked it. Enough to think that she’d have liked another round. It’s not often that she indulges into this kind of thing, or often that she attends weddings while wearing such a refined dress, so why not? This entire affair has gone a lot better than she had imagined while riding towards the Twins.

She sees Edwyn Frey near, and the musicians look about to start, and that’s why she goes to him and asks for a dance. She isn’t the kind of woman who’ll wait for someone to invite her.

 _Get away, bitch_ isn’t the answer she had expected.

For a moment, she doesn’t understand why he’d be so rude to her.

And then her king is approaching, and then Dacey sees an arrow hit his shoulder, and she curses the dress she wears.

 _It’s a trap_.

Oh, and what trap. She could do with her armor and her sword now, not with her stupid silk and low shoes and braided hair.

She makes do with a flagon of wine when she’s seized, and it’s a damn good satisfaction to know that the turncloak she has just hit in the face with it will spend his life with scars all over his chin and cheeks (she hopes some of the glass pieces might have blinded him, but she can’t stay around to make sure of it).

There’s noise all around her now, the _Rains of Castamere_ and drums and the sounds of swords clashing and arrows flying – _I can steal a sword_ , she thinks, _I can steal one and see to bring some of them with me_ , and she sees a closed door. She doesn’t think before acting – she runs, hoping to find a weapon to grab, but then the door slams open, and there are armed man in front of her –

 _I only asked for a dance_ , she thinks as an axe’s cold, merciless steel cuts through her stomach.

4.

_**And as I watched him on the stage  
My hands were clenched in fists of rage** _

Bloody turncloaks.

If they thought that wine would be what subdued Greatjon Umber, then they were _wrong_.

He’s still feeling blood on his lips, and it’s not his – that fucker trying to knock him out is walking out of this carnage without one ear, and that’s good enough for him.

He also doesn’t know if the two men he managed to slash at before have been wounded badly enough, but he can only hope that they die of infected wounds if they weren’t deep enough to kill them. And if they thought that wine would be what stopped him from putting his sword through one of their turncloak breasts, then they were wrong.

But then he sees Roose Bolton thrust that sword into his king’s breast, and sees Robb Stark fall down on the ground at once, he hears Lady Stark screaming as two men try to hold him down.

They’re not enough. He shakes them off, but they’re on him again and calling for more and his sword is gone, and he hears Walder Frey laugh as he sits on his stupid chair – he’s heard crows sounding more lively. But gods that old bastard turncloak is laughing still as Lady Stark’s blood falls all over his already red floor, and there are six men on him, no – more than that – and he can’t move anymore. He wishes he could tear them all apart with his bare hands as arrows fly and swords clash and drums pound so loud that his ears hurt (too much wine, _damn it_ , too much).

He’s failed, he knows, but he still tries to get out of that grip, he’s not so drunk that he doesn’t realize what they mean to do with him. If he isn’t dead already then they want to keep him as an hostage, and he’d rather die with his king than being used as a pawn by these people ( _they broke guest right, bloody coward turncloaks_ ), but then something hits him on the back of the head and he only feels rage as he thinks, _I failed_.

5

_**This'll be the day that I die** _

It wasn’t supposed to go like this, it wasn’t –

( _and who are you, the proud lord said, that I must bow so low?_ )

There’s pain in his chest, and his side, and his leg, and the table covering him won’t save his life, it can’t, there’s too much noise, too loud, and what are those drums –

( _only a cat of a different coat, that’s all the truth I know_ )

 _At least I didn’t bring Jeyne, at least I didn’t, my mother was right, where’s my mother_ , he’s trying to stand up, he can hear her somewhere, what is she even trying to do, there’s no use –

>(In a coat of gold or a coat of red)

There’s blood all over him, he knows that, but it’s as if he’s looking at someone else’s clothes, but it’s coming from _him_ , it’s leaving trails all over the floor as he tries to stand up, and that table’s so heavy, so _heavy_ –

( _a lion still has claws_ )

He can hear his mother begging for his life somewhere near but he can barely see anything, and it’s not worth it, he can’t survive this, she should be the one leaving, she should –

“No, mother, no…”

He can barely hear himself, he can barely hear _her_ –

“ _Save yourself for Jeyne_ –”

( _and mine are long and sharp my lord, as long and sharp as yours_ )

He grips the table with shaking fingers, his nails digging into the wood, his knuckles growing white under the blood stains, his legs are working but they won’t for long, _JeyneJeyneJeyneJeyneI’mnotsorryImarriedyoubutI’msorryIhavetogoJeyneIcan’tdothis_ –

( _and so he spoke, and so he spoke, that lord of Castamere_ )

“Jeyne?”

He can’t recognize his own voice, and she isn’t there, but someone else is –

“Mother?”

That’s not it, that’s not the entirety of it, there’s something else, there’s some kind of pull coming from the outside but he doesn’t know, he doesn’t _know_ –

“Grey Wind?”

That’s where it’s coming from, but it’s all so faint and he doesn’t understand what’s happening and ithurtssomucha, and someone’s laughing, there’s nothing to laugh about, there’s blood all over him and he can taste it in his mouth and he hadn’t thought this could happen, he hadn’t thought it would, that isn’t _fair_ , that’s not how you win wars, his mother’s still begging but he can’t see her even if he tries to look her way and that’s _notnotnotnot_ –

( _but now the rains weep o’er his hall with no one there to hear_ )

“Jaime Lannister sends his regards,” a cold voice says ( _the same man that gave him Theon’s skin before and his eyes were cold and his own son has Winterfell and ohnonononohowcouldhetrusthimhow_ ) and then there’s something cold and he’s not _there_ , he knows that it’s over here but maybe not, maybe he could follow that pull, maybe –

>(yes now the rains weep over his hall)

 _There’s a cage and there are swords and he’s trying to get out, he’s trying to get away, no,_ they’ _re trying to get away, but it’s too many of them and he isn’t free and there’s another cold, sharp sword and he can’t get out, he can’t, he can’t –_

( _and not a soul to hear_ )

\+ 1

_**Do you recall what was revealed  
The day the music died?** _

“You don’t look happy to see me, Reek.”

He keeps his mouth shut.

It’s been months and he has learned that answering _my name is Theon_ isn’t just useless, it’s dangerous. Doing that will only mean more flaying, or –

No.

He isn’t _thinking_ about that at all.

His left hand throbs where the finger Ramsay cut off a few days ago should be.

He swallows and looks down at the ground and at the filthy rags covering his legs and doesn’t answer. Maybe silence is the answer. Maybe if he just ignores him he’ll go away.

(No, that’s just what he’d wish. Ramsay Snow isn’t the kind of bother that goes away when ignored.)

“Not chatty today, aren’t you? I suppose it’s better than before – you really did talk too much.”

Theon keeps his mouth shut. He can feel the four gaps where there used to be teeth before.

If he had known, he’d have learned not to talk back a long time ago. He breathes in, trying to hide his left hand between his curled knees. It’s shaking. He takes another breath as he hears Ramsay walking inside the cell.

_Whatever he has for you, ignore it. Try to go someplace else. At some point Robb will find out about Winterfell, he’s going to know that Bolton is as much of a turncloak as you were, and then he’ll find you and he’ll cut your head the way Ned Stark has cut heads his entire life. Just one blow and then you’ll be gone. You deserve that, anyway, and what’s death in comparison to – to this?_

It’s what he always thinks when this happens. He hasn’t hoped for mercy once, but that’s not the point – he doesn’t deserve that, does he? No. He just wants to die. And he’s sure that Robb hates him, he’s sure that Robb, wherever he is, he’s wishing that he was dead, and he has all the rights. But he also knows that Robb has no taste for torture, or flaying, or this kind of imprisonment.

(He’s stopped hoping for a ransom. He knew it wasn’t going to happen weeks after he was captured.)

A quick and merciful death. That’s all he wants. And he knows that’s what Robb would do, he hasn’t known him ten years for nothing, and he’s going to come at some point, and –

“I just thought I might inform you of this thing that happened about a week ago,” Ramsay says, and Theon tries to tune him out. “Mostly because it concerns someone you’re hoping comes to kill you.”

Theon goes still at once. He still doesn’t speak or move or (worse) look up. He might be playing games with him. That wouldn’t be the first time, would it?

“You think I never hear what you say when you’re sleeping?”

Oh no.

Oh _no_.

He hadn’t thought that Ramsay might even hang around his cell when he’s sleeping but of course he would, of course, how could he even presume that he _wouldn’t_ –

“Well, I’m afraid that your precious king in the North won’t come for a long while. Actually, ever.”

Theon has raised his head before he can think better of it.

Fuck.

Ramsay Snow is smiling in the way that means trouble, and he’s keeping his hands hidden, and Theon doesn’t like the sound of this.

“Ever?” he whispers, cursing his traitorous tongue.

“You couldn’t know. But you do know that he married that girl he wasn’t supposed to. Jeyne. What a chance. It rhymes with pain – now that’s some kind of interesting name, isn’t it? But what I was saying – oh, yes. The Freys weren’t happy with that kind of thinking. So they took care of that kind of offense. With some help, but that’s not what you should be worrying about.”

 _No. No, that can’t have happened, it can’t be real_ –

“I’m sorry to say most of your precious northmen are no more. Lady Stark is no more either. And I have a gift for you.”

When he drops a red, bloodied handful of red curls in front of him, Theon bites down on his tongue hard enough to hurt, but if he screams out loud –

Oh no.

 _Nonononononononononono_ –

“That’s some of what’s left of your precious Robb Stark. I think I’ll leave you five minutes to consider your options, but since this was a gift, I expect you to thank me later. And the next time I call you by _your_ name, I would pay attention to how I answer. Oh, but I was forgetting to tell you. I’ve heard he married that Jeyne Westerling after hearing that his little brothers were dead. Well, apparently she tried to _comfort_ him and then she ended up spoiled, what a pity. I wonder who’s to be thanked for that.”

There’s a hand carding through his hair and then tugging hard enough to hurt, and then he’s gone, but he won’t _stay_ gone. Theon knows that well enough.

His thin fingertips brush against that hair but then he feels like vomiting all over it and he moves his hand back as if what he’s just touched burned.

 _He’s gone_ , Theon thinks with not a slight hint of desperation, _what did they do to him if he had his hair, oh gods ohgodsohgods it was all his fault he should have never gone for Winterfell he should have never left and Robb is dead and no one is coming for him now or ever, no one is ever – it’s all his damned own fault and he can’t do this he can’thecan’thecan’thecan’t –_

 

Theon Greyjoy never was at the Red Wedding.

But saying that Reek was born the day he knew Robb Stark died wouldn’t be wrong at all.

 

 _ **And as the flames climbed high into the night**_  
**_To light the sacrificial rite_**  
 ** _I saw Satan laughing with delight_**  
 ** _The day the music died_**

 

End


End file.
